


(A)wake Mo(u)rning

by 3RatMoon



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Confessions, Implied/Referenced Neglect, M/M, Marielda Spoilers, Post-Marielda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 16:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12915639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3RatMoon/pseuds/3RatMoon
Summary: Edmund came outside where Samol was sitting and smoking his pipe. He sat down in the chair next to him with a whump, the last of Ethan’s bottle of liquor in his hands. The man took a nip, then sunk further into the chair, sighing dramatically the way that he always did when he had something to say, but didn’t want to be the one to start the conversation.





	(A)wake Mo(u)rning

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for a long time and it needed to be finished, even if it wasn't perfect.

Edmund came outside where Samol was sitting and smoking his pipe. He sat down in the chair next to him with a _whump_ , the last of Ethan’s bottle of liquor in his hands. The man took a nip, then sunk further into the chair, sighing dramatically the way that he always did when he had something to say, but didn’t want to be the one to start the conversation. He would sigh and Samol would ask “What is in now, boy?” even though the twins are in their fifties now and quite far from boyhood in terms of human lifespans. Of course, Samol didn’t always say something, and silence would stretch out between them. Sometimes Edmund would sigh again, and _then_ Samol would say something, or it would just be quiet until Edmund gave in and spoke up, or left, or something else interrupted them.

This time, it took four or five sighs until Edmund finally talked.

“It’s the anniversary of our father’s death,” he said, in that strained, lilting way that is supposed to sound casual but rarely is.

Samol hummed around his pipe, then exhaled, “I was wondering what ya’ll were celebrating,” he replied, gesturing to the bottle.

“Heh, yeah.” Edmund trailed off for a long moment, then said, “Every once in awhile I remember that we’re older than he ever got to be.”

Samol blew a ring of smoke, and Edmund took another drink, the last bit of liquor sloshing hollowly inside the bottle. More silence.

“He was kind of an ass, you know?” the old thief gestured vaguely the way that drunk people sometimes do, and the way Edmund often does, even when sober, “I thought that we were so stuck on the Long Con because the story of our mother and this house was all we had of her, but uh, I think Ethan realized first, that it’s really all we have of him, either. And, and, it’s not Mother’s fault that she died, but it _is_ his fault that he didn’t do anything. I mean, we had money, sure, but no care, none at all.”

Edmund gestured more strongly, pointing in front of him. “You, you know Aubrey, right? You remember her? She grew up in Emberboro, poor as shit, but her family _cared_ , and she cared, and she had her own problems but she was _good_ , right? She was fucked as the rest of us but she was good. And Ethan and I never wanted for food or freedom or anything but we didn’t care.”

Samol looked at Edmund sidelong. It wasn’t often that the twins spoke of their youth with anything resembling regret, which tipped the god off. He was used to people asking for his advice, often disguised under pretences of a story or a favour, and perhaps that’s what the old thief thought he was doing, too. But under that, Samol found, was that Edmund usually didn’t want advice so much as an excuse to talk over the situation until he came to his own conclusions. Anything else came too close to a challenge.

Regardless, Samol did like a good story, and Edmund was a good storyteller.

“I know now that we were just trying to survive, Ethan and I. We never really thought much about the future. Between serving in Samothes’s army and being part of the Six, I don’t think we really expected to get to grow old.” Edmund grinned a little at Samol. “Funny, isn’t it? We’d claw our way out of danger tooth and nail only to jump right into the next fire. Just trying to survive, but we’re just a couple of fools, too. A couple of little shits who never cared about anyone but ourselves.”

The last couple words tasted sour like a green peach. Edmund tipped his head back and drained the last of the bottle.

“I didn’t used to care about being good. Now I do.” The man spat half-heartedly. “I care about being good and all I’ve got is a life full of regrets and daddy issues.”

Of course, the thing about green peach trees was that they had strong roots. When storm and flood had pulled up or washed away everything with sweeter fruit, the green peach tree would remain, like nature’s insult to mortal suffering. Samol didn't make it that way, but he did leave it.

There was such a long silence after that last admission that Samol thought that would be the end of it, but Edmund sighed again, drawn out with woe. Samol’s pipe was getting low and ashy, but he didn’t make any movement to either refill it or leave.

“Coming here changed things, I think,” the man finally started again, “Must be. And getting old and… I dunno, you?”

Samol looked up again, meeting Edmund’s desperate gaze.

“I-I think living with you made me want to be good. Or, or like I realized that I could be, or…” Edmund looked down at his feet. He had gone from drunk melancholy to agitated, hands shaking, bouncing his knee to release some of the fearful energy that had built in him. Samol wasn’t sure how he felt about this change in mood.

“I think I love you,” Edmund blurted, and Samol sucked hard on his pipe. It was all ash.

“I, I dunno. You are almost like a father, more of a father than me or Ethan ever had for sure, but I dunno, it also kind of changed as I got older? You’re so much older than me, older than anything else in the world, but– I dunno Samol, it doesn’t make sense but it’s _real_ , I just…”

Samol locked eyes with Edmund again. Edmund was crying, but that wasn’t uncommon for him. Nor was the way that he pleaded with his look, a fast talker who so often found himself at a loss for words. But there had still been changes. Not just in his body, which became harder and thinner over the years while Ethan's softened. Yes, Samol had noticed other changes, too. He watched it like one watches the leaves turn, or perhaps watches a storm build on the horizon.

What Edmund said about goodness and time and aging were all true, of course, but they were not _the_ reason. The reasons why living creatures feel a certain way are tenfold and rarely connect in any way that make sense. Edmund just happened to know, like any good storyteller, how to find a narrative pattern in the chaos, to explain in at least one small way how one gets from one place to another. Enough for a drunken confession to a god on the anniversary of his father’s death.

Samol sighed and tapped out his pipe before returning it to his mouth. “I understand, Edmund. And let me make myself clear– you would not still be here if I didn’t like having you and your brother around. Being alone doesn’t bother me, but you don’t either.”

Edmund was quiet, watching, scared and hopeful, and Samol felt a small new hurt in the fog of pain that he existed in.

“I don’t think you know what you’re askin’, boy. I’ve got a lot of love in me, don’t get me wrong. I am Hieron itself! I got enough love for _everyone_ , I reckon. But… I don’t think you understand.”

Samol watched as Edmund's shoulders sagged, and the small new hurt grew.

“Right. Yeah. Probably,” the old thief smiled sheepishly, for a moment more like a boy than even when the two of them first met face to face, decades ago, when the wound of Samothes’s death was so fresh in Samol’s heart that it was still bleeding. It was scabbed over, now, but far from healed, and Samol felt very, very old, indeed.

The god sighed, dropping his pipe into his shirt pocket. “I’m tired and going to bed,” he said, and stood, grunting with the effort. He fumbled for his cane for a moment before finally looking back down at the man in front of him, slumped in his chair and playing with the empty bottle at his feet.

Samol sighed again, in a strange echo of the ritual this ex-cavalier, ex-criminal, ex-actor-in-the-fate-of-the-world had been performing all night. “Edmund…”

The man looked up, and Samol found himself tracing the lines of his face– the outline of his jaw and cheekbones, the greying hair partially receded, the valleys of pain and sorrow and joy etched into brown skin.

Samol reached out and touched that face, for a moment. “Sober up a bit and then come ask me again, alright?” he asked softly.

Edmund looked confused.

At that, Samol managed a small smile. “Goodnight, Edmund. Get some rest.”

“Uh, good, goodnight, Samol,” Edmund stuttered.

Samol left Edmund alone after that. Samol knew he had nothing left to tell him, and he really did feel very tired. Perhaps he would feel better after a rest, too.


End file.
